My sister and I used to skip classes during the summer
months – this was once I was a bit older and we got along OK, and she had her
P-plater licence and would sometimes drive my dad’s truck to school.

She would drive us out to the nearest beach town; just not the
one with the bay, not the one with the easy, gentle white sand dunes. We’d go
to the one where you had to clamber down the rocks and it wasn’t so good for
swimming, where people parked their cars on the headland, and where you couldn’t
see who was on the beach from the carpark.

I don’t know about my sister, but I was always nervous on
the drive out there. We lived in a tiny valley, and it was just as likely we’d
run into someone who knew our parents and would dob us in. But once we were
down the rocks we were safe and hidden. Never mind that our dad’s truck –
parked alone in the headland carpark – was instantly recognisable to anyone who
knew him. It was, and still is, I suppose, the kind of town where you know
everyone else’s number plates.

But that was our summer mischief. We’d spend the afternoon swimming
and lying in the sun, talking and occasionally flicking through study notes so
we didn’t feel so bad about skipping classes. Because that’s the kind of badasses
we were – lucky ones, beachside skipping school with study-guilt.